


Out of Darkness

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar hurts Mohinder and the consequences are more deeply felt than anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mylar Fic Holiday Prompt Table: "Festive"

_“I miss you, I miss you so far  
And the collision of your kiss that made it so hard.”_   
**\- My Chemical Romance, ** _ **Cemetery Drive** _

 

As Sylar opens the door to the apartment, he can already feel a chill in the air from the impending fight surely awaiting his arrival. He pauses only for a moment in the entranceway, then closes the door behind him and takes a few cautious steps into the kitchen.

The glow of a lamp in the living room draws his attention forward to Mohinder, sitting on the sofa, with a book in his hands. Mohinder makes no move to acknowledge his presence, which surprises Sylar who has been readying for a very loud verbal assault.

And it's one he will have brought upon himself, knowingly.

He is deliberately late, which he intended to be, but seeing Mohinder seemingly so far away in this moment has Sylar questioning his own judgment. It was immature to handle the disagreement or unappreciated request by ignoring it and accepting a verbal blow out rather than dealing with the issues at hand, but Sylar did it anyway. Being late meant Sylar could put off Mohinder's invitation for yet another time, and when the hour in question finally came and went he figured he would just stay out. After all, Mohinder would already be angry and, once late, there was no way Sylar could be _more_ late.

Except, standing awkwardly between the kitchen and the living room, Sylar realizes there is such a thing.

There are a slew of words he could say and probably should as an explanation. Many of which he has said before, to the point where the fight always ends up turning into him insinuating Mohinder never listens anyway. It is a sort of reverse psychology, but now they only sound like excuses in his head.

The fact of the matter is Mohinder asked one thing of him and Sylar couldn't--_wouldn't_\--swallow his pride to do it.

He's about to call out Mohinder's name (all the while like an idiot trying to draw the attention of a dangerous animal who, up to now, is willfully ignoring the uninvited invasion into personal space) when Mohinder closes his book. Sylar snaps his mouth shut and warily watches Mohinder remove his reading glasses, folding in the earpieces and setting them on the side table along with the book.

After a moments thought, Mohinder stands up (turning of the lamp) and walks by Sylar, not sparing him a second glance, on his way to the bedroom.

He shuts the door with a loud thud behind him.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

They have been together for a year, which in itself began eight years after they first met. No one, least of all them, would have thought a recipe of murder, vengeance, manipulation and betrayal, would begat anything other than vendettas carried out until one or both were six feet under.

They were thrown a curve ball instead.

In the years that followed, filled with both personal and grand battles, more blood, justified homicide, a tentative partnership when a united front was demanded against larger (potentially catastrophic) destruction, revelatory scientific jumps; rife with loaded conversations, menacing pasts and crippling presents; bursting at the seams with all that was never said but most definitely felt--for good, bad and, worse, utterly confusing--_this_ was never a consideration in the cards.

They were constantly crossing paths, however, until seeing each other almost regularly not only began to feel natural, but came to be expected. And with that strange hurdle maneuvered followed the unexpected courtship neither realized they were in until it was too late to turn back; and the only thing pressing down on them was, _'Is this real?'_ and _'This changes everything,'_\--meaning there was more to it than what was transpiring between them, there were others who would be affected.

Taunting invasions of personal space became accidental touches, which became deliberate acts of affection. Strong, hurtful words became curious wonderings searching out more personal information, which eventually turned into shared laughter over secretive confessions and long late night conversations about work that felt as intimate to them as any pillow talk between lovers.

And, like that, one day they were in a relationship.

As surprised as Sylar was by the turn, he basked in Mohinder's inability to apply logic to what had changed between them. He saw Mohinder struggle with what it meant, what it said about himself, what it implied about Sylar, and what it revealed in the grand scheme of things. For Sylar it was a bit easier. A relatively singular creature, he was content to have Mohinder take up such a pivotal role in his life, alongside all the other stuff, that defined him, without having to consider how it impacted everyone else.

With the two of them coming at it from different sides, however, compromise became a very real fact. Past experience with it (as in, Sylar never wanting to let anyone else determine any aspect of his life) meant Sylar put more stock in certain actions than Mohinder took from them. Where Sylar regarded being more discerning with whom he killed (such as dangerous Specials who posed a great threat to the safety and lives of others) as a pretty huge allowance on his part, Mohinder saw it as the only conscionable position to have (if murder could not be avoided, but he fought tooth and nail every time for a non-violent solution until there was nothing left).

In the early days of their tryst, Mohinder spent a lot of his free time with Sylar, and when they weren't discovering and rediscovering the ways they could make each other gasp, moan, shout in ecstasy; they were experiencing the city Sylar once thought he knew so well, together. They turned work road trips into excursions, complete with goofy pictures at bizarrely large monuments (and a few restricted ones Sylar promised an angry Mohinder would never be seen by anyone else), worth remembering on rainy days.

Of course it was only a matter of time until the other shoe dropped.

Sylar hadn't been able to get a hold of Mohinder for a couple of days and he refused to acknowledge any jealousy over Mohinder and Peter spending a few days and nights together on a job. When Sylar did track Mohinder back at the apartment, Mohinder's somber mood warned of the story to follow. Peter suspected their relationship and upon confronting Mohinder (politely so, as a friend), the truth had set itself free. It went without saying Peter was less than thrilled. Even though Sylar had been working with them in some capacity, his colourfully sordid past was still an obnoxious red flag.

But Peter, being who he was, stood by Mohinder as news of his relationship with Sylar became a fact amongst their circle of friends and acquaintances. That's where the bigger compromise eventually came in. Once in awhile, Mohinder wanted Sylar to attend a group dinner or party as his--Boyfriend? Partner? Lover? Significant other? All the terms made Sylar cringe and Mohinder wrinkle his nose in distaste, but they were definitely something profound to each other, and the acknowledgement of that proved the devil in the details.

Sylar despised the idea of socializing with Bennet, Peter, and any of the others, as if he were some neutered pet to be trotted out and fussed over. He didn't like the thought of them eyeing him and Mohinder with amusement or skepticism (planting seeds of doubt), not after he and Mohinder had overcome so much. Buried further down was the fear Mohinder would realize Sylar wasn't good enough for him and that Mohinder was simply passing the time until the real thing showed up.

Sylar preferred their secluded bubble to sharing Mohinder with them, and given that Mohinder saw them quite a bit, Sylar didn't know exactly what had changed to make Mohinder want him there as well. When he saw Bennet, Peter and the others, Sylar liked to be in full 'I-could-be-your-worst-nightmare' mode, not a 'I-can't-take-my-eyes-off-the-man-I'm-in-love-with' daze.

Still, it was important to Mohinder for reasons Sylar didn't want to hear, so he kept “forgetting” or making last minute excuses to get out of their plans. In any case, he figured he could make up for it with sex--angry, rough fucking that left them both panting into each other's mouths and bucking against one another, where Mohinder could unleash all his frustrations and Sylar would take it from him (and dish a little back for good 'don't forget who I am' measure), followed by deep rejuvenating sleep and contented smiles in the morning.

But there's always a breaking point.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

Even though, over the course of their being together, Sylar spent the bulk of his nights at Mohinder's, he had retained his own apartment. For the three days following their latest fallout it becomes Sylar's primary residence. Being back in a safe space is one thing, but it also reminds him how much he misses Mohinder--and not just for the amorous physicality which surpassed expectation, but the comfort of a familiar mind perfectly complimenting his.

Solitude is bit overrated, especially when there is someone to share it with.

Being stubborn means he holds out until it is too much. Confronting Mohinder, however, has opened an unsavory can of worms. Standing in Mohinder's kitchen now, Sylar is struck not just by how furious Mohinder is, but how it's not manifesting in shouting or pushing. Rather (worriedly so) Mohinder sounds resigned, irritated, _tired_.

“You're making a mountain out of a molehill.” Sylar scratches the back of his head, trying to sidestep the panic of losing something he can't hold onto, gnawing at his stomach.

Mohinder shakes his head and leans forward, gripping the top of one of the kitchen chairs. “It's as if you've heard _nothing_ I've said--which isn't really a surprise since you obviously believe the only thing which matters is what you want.”

“It was just a dinner--,”

“No, it wasn't.” Mohinder lifts and slams down the chair, loudly. “What is this to you?”

It sounds rhetorical, which make Sylar nervous and he furrows his brow. Mohinder eyes him expectantly. When Sylar doesn't reply, Mohinder sighs, folding his arms across his chest. He looks at the door as if trying to formulate _how_ he wants to say _what_ he needs to say.

“When we first embarked on this relationship,” Mohinder flits his eyes to Sylar, “You argued I had to trust what was between us was real. There was--_is_\--a loaded past with us, and you wanted me to _believe_ in you. And against my better judgment I did.”

Standing still, Sylar eyes Mohinder as he walks around the table and settles against the kitchen counter, holding Sylar's gaze the entire time.

“But I'm not like you, Sylar. I'm not an asocial person.”

“You don't like being with me,” Sylar sounds far ruder than he intends, but he's anticipating where Mohinder is going despite the dubious sentiments.

“I _love_ being with you,” Mohinder corrects him and Sylar sees the faint flush of pink that rises up the side of his neck over the declaration, rarely said out loud. However, Mohinder's tone isn't pleading or upset. It's frustrated and moving quickly towards belligerent.

Mohinder pushes away from the counter and steps close into Sylar's space. “But that doesn't mean much when this obviously means so little to you. You ask for my trust but have no intention of returning it.”

Flabbergasted by the notion, Sylar's mouth drops open. He is unsure if Mohinder is seriously suggesting what they have is little more than a one-sided affair of if he's trying to get a rise out of him. If it's the latter, Mohinder is succeeding. Sylar doesn't like being backed into a corner.

“Well aren't we dramatic?” Sylar glares. “You know I have no interest in these little dinner parties and hanging out with those people. Putting on a welcome mask for a bunch of strangers who will never know the real me is hardly my idea of an evening well spent.”

“Bennet? Peter? It's not like you don't know them. And you've worked with Henri and Xavier, Shireen.”

“Exactly. I _work_ with them. I don't want to socialize with them too.”

“But I do!” Mohinder takes a deep breath and drops his hands to his side, gesturing for a few seconds like he is considering grabbing Sylar's arms but finally deciding against it. “They're my friends--,”

Sylar raises a questioning eyebrow and Mohinder pauses, starting again.

“Okay, not Bennet, but the fact is I do see him away from work. As for the others, _yes_, they are my friends, and Peter--he's family to me. That's not something I've ever kept from you.”

“And you see them whenever you want.”

“And just once I would like you to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to feel like I'm living two separate lives, like there's something seedy or unseemly about one of them. I don't compartmentalize like you!” Mohinder's eyes frantically search his, trying to latch onto some glimmer of understanding.

Sylar's attention is drawn to the strong lines of Mohinder's clenched jaw and the heavy tension in his squared shoulders. The pulsating heat emanating from Mohinder is distracting and Sylar can practically breathe in every ounce of emotion speeding through the man across from him.

Mohinder raises his voice. “It took me a long time to accept what was going on between us, and even the n it was a carefully guarded secret. Maybe you were fine with that, but it didn't feel real to me until…Now they all know, but it's not real to them because outside of work you don't exist except as some name in a story I tell.”

“So this is about making them happy or keeping up appearances?” Sylar's irritation grows at being subject to the whims of others.

“It's about making me happy.” Mohinder begins to walk away when Sylar grabs his arm. Mohinder stares coldly at it, then glowers at him. “I'm not even talking about once a week. God knows I like having my own time with them, away from your rather arrogant attitude, but I don't think it's a lot to ask of you to be _with_ me once in awhile. With me in front of them. I know it's easy when it's just us and nothing else has to matter, but it does. So tell me, what is this to you?”

Mohinder pulls out of Sylar's grip. “Is this all you want? Not existing? Or maybe that's all you've ever really wanted. Maybe you like us being something abstract, make believe? It might work for you, but not me. How about we finally put the cards on the table?” Mohinder says wistfully and walks away.

Sylar swallows, at a loss for what to say. He had expected a fight, even anticipated an ultimatum. But Mohinder isn't playing that game. He is offering an out, to both of them.

For the first time in a long while Sylar isn't sure how to fix things.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

Mohinder isn't the only one who can be bullheaded. Sylar avoids him for days, mad and unsure of where they stand. Being formally called out on his behaviour--the very attitude he'd had before Mohinder entered his life--only serves to back him up on his heels and stand his ground.

Sylar doesn't like being reprimanded or rebuked, and now his relationship with Mohinder is on the line. In retrospect, he knows Mohinder isn't asking for much, a rather friendly (at least polite) face-to-face occassionally with those Mohinder considers important, outside of a professional setting. So why does it feel like he's asking for the world ?

Worse, Sylar hates being disconnected from Mohinder. Before they were together, even when things were strained, they were always in tune. Now it's…static.

Back in his own apartment, he finds one of Mohinder's scarves, accidentally fallen beneath the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Sylar gently fingers the knit weave and Mohinder's memories within flash across his brain.

_Mohinder yelling at Bennet (who looks bored and annoyed) about working with Sylar--_

_Mohinder smiling at the barista in the coffee shop, then glaring when he sees Sylar watching him--_

_Peter starting a snowball fight with Mohinder in Central Park after a blizzard blankets the city, the two of them laughing until they can't breathe--_

_Molly tying the scarf in knots around Mohinder's neck, giggling as Mohinder pretends to struggle before collapsing to the ground; jumping up at the last minute and startling a jovial scream from her--_

_Matt introducing Mohinder to his son, the child looking up at him with bright eyes--_

_Sylar angrily pressing Mohinder up against the alleyway wall and claiming his mouth with a deep kiss that leaves them both breathless--_

_Mohinder, half naked, grinning wickedly down at Sylar while he wraps the scarf around Sylar's hands, binding them and lifting them over his head--_

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ***********

 

“Talk to him. He'll listen to you.”

Peter stifles a condescending laugh and takes a sip of coffee, briefly glancing about the busy café. Leaning forward against the table, he says, “And why would I want to help you? We both know Mohinder deserves a whole lot better.”

Sylar bristles at the reply as it justifies every reason (he ignored) asking for Peter's help in the first place. He censors his retort as best he can. “I don't really care what you think of me, Petrelli.”

“Ah, but you should.” Peter raises a cautioning finger (which Sylar would love nothing more than to snap in half), obviously enjoying having the upper hand. “Mohinder listens to me, right?”

“And I make him happy--,”

“You _did_\--but I don't know how much of that I believe. Especially with you sitting here asking for my help. _Needing_ it.”

An unflinching stare-down ensues between them and Sylar convinces himself not to toss the table aside and throttle Peter's head against the floor, into within an inch of his life. Mohinder's face flashes in his mind, reminding him why he's here, taking a chance by exposing a painful vulnerability.

Leaning back in his hair, Sylar firmly states, “_He_ makes _me_ happy.”

Peter's slightly widening eyes betray his surprise at the intimate admission. He stumbles over a couple of aborted words before giving up completely and dropping his shoulders, bracing his elbows on the table. Absentmindedly, Peter tones, “Funny thing is, I don' t really care about you.”

“We've firmly established there's no love lost with us,” Sylar argues, wanting to get on track with the task at hand. “But Mohinder…I won't--I can't lose…Look, I need to make this right.”

The very idea sends a flood of apprehension through Sylar's brain in a flipbook of images. It happens before he remembers Peter can read minds and by the time Sylar reins in his thoughts, Peter is watching him with a rather nonplussed expression, certainly not expecting what he has seen.

Peter doesn't ask the obvious question (for which Sylar is thankful for) and Sylar wonders if it suddenly seems redundant. Love, after all, rarely makes any sense.

“I won't make him do anything he doesn't want to do, so you can forget about me using any powers on him,” Peter says, clear and to the point.

Relief washes over Sylar. “I'm not asking you to do anything like that.” It would be unforgivable, in any case, and Mohinder would despise him.

Peter cuts him off with a raised hand. “He's never liked being the center of attention. He doesn't want to put you in the spotlight. For some inexplicable reason he actually wants to share his life with you, on both your terms--but he's the one giving everything.”

Simply stated, the truth manages to make Sylar feel like a complete asshole. “Are you done?” he mutters coldly.

“Oh no, there's a lot more I'd like to say, that you need to hear,” Peter's reply is quick. “How about I save that for another time, when I'm feeling less friendly.”

“Thanks, I can't wait.” Sylar rolls his eyes. “So?”

Peter considers him a moment. “You need to make a big impression,” he eventually says. “ And you're not going to like it.”

Precisely what Sylar is dreading, but if things are going to change, if Mohinder is to see him in a new light and know how seriously Sylar takes them, know definitively what he means to Sylar, then it is necessary for Sylar to choke down his pride. Adding insult to injury is his dependence on Peter to re-establish what has been broken. It's humiliating, almost tantrum inducing, and if it doesn't work…

Sylar narrows his eyes. “What do I have to do?”

**  
********** ********** ********** ********** ************

 

By the time they arrive at the Brownstone, the party is in full swing. Sylar follows Peter inside, already feeling antsy and out of place. Not that anyone else would notice, they're all happily drinking, munching on appetizers, laughing and talking, dancing. It's a barrage of people, only a couple of whom Sylar knows, all in (what can only be described as) “a festive mood.”

While Sylar shrugs off his coat and hands it to the hostess (“Marguerite,” Peter grins affectionately) he takes in the overwhelming sight of the massive Christmas tree set up in front of the living room window, decorated with an overabundant display of holiday cheer. From there he drifts his eyes across the strewn tinsel and colourful garlands embellishing the crown molding across the tops of the walls, and the bows across the fireplace's mantle and around the various entryways, including the length of the stairway banister.

Running a hand through his short, messy hair, Sylar skims over the faces. Walking behind Peter and into the cheerful lion's den, there is only one person he wants to see. As he adjusts the knot in his tie (and he is quickly thankful for the one proper black suit, complete with crisp white button-down shirt, black tie and dress shoes, in his closet) his searching gaze finally lands on the whole point of this entirely uncomfortable mission.

Mohinder, cutting quite the look in the navy (almost black) silk suit--the one that secretly always rushes Sylar's blood straight to his groin (and even tie-less, with the top button of his white shirt undone, looks formal) --is in the middle of a conversation with an obviously buzzed older woman. He looks…content to Sylar's eyes, if not a bit distracted.

All at once their eyes meet. Sylar stands up tall and drops his fidgety hands to his side, a small smile tugging at his face. Mohinder freezes for a second, his eyes go wide then narrow into confusion when Peter squeezes Sylar's arm and goes to find where the food table is set.

Their time apart now feel like a lifetime. Nervousness aside, Sylar can barely contain the smile threatening to overtake his face as he works his way through the crowd over to Mohinder. In turn, Mohinder's perplexed expression pulls Sylar like a magnet and he casually glances at the overly friendly grasp Mohinder's companion has on his arm. Sylar's gaze fixes once more on Mohinder's.

“What are you doing here?” Mohinder is as incredulous as he is curious.

Sylar realizes he hasn't planned what to say. He looks at the crowd, steps a bit closer to Mohinder, and replies, “Peter--uh--invited me.”

It's the truth, but it sounds like the wrong way to frame their 'reunion,' made all the more obvious by Mohinder's wrinkling brow and polite, “Excuse me,” to the woman before catching Sylar's eye and silently beckoning him to follow him to someplace quiet.

They end up in a study towards the back of the residence. There are a few people inside, but for a private conversation it will suffice. Mohinder leads him to the far corner where the floor-to-ceiling bookcase meets the window.

“I don't understand,” Mohinder says, casting a furtive glance about. “What would possess you to come to this--_now_, of all times? And for _Peter_? Is this your way of saying he can ask you to one of these things and it's no big deal, but I ask you and it's like pulling teeth?”

Sylar shakes his head, moving in closer and leaning his left shoulder against the shelves. “Peter said you'd be here.”

Mohinder waits for him to continue.

Sylar straightens up, his defense mechanisms instinctively kicking in. “Peter asks and I can say yes or no. It has nothing to do with anything except the party. You ask and…it's everything.”

“And you don't want it to be?” Mohinder questions. He is at once unsure yet insistent.

“I'm not use to it being that way,” Sylar points out, never looking away. “Yes, I want it, _with you_. I'm just…figuring out what that means. But…” Sylar drops his face close to Mohinder's and softly adds, “I came tonight.”

_For you_ is implied loud and clear.

There's a pause, a stifling hesitation when Sylar isn't sure if his words make any sense and if Mohinder will accept his honest offering or tell him it's too little too late, but 'thanks for crawling on your hands and knees and giving me your heart before I tell you to hit the road'. As the tense silence drags out Sylar wishes he could read Mohinder's mind, even if only for a few seconds, just to know what he's thinking. As it is, Sylar feels cut loose and groundless, spinning wildly with no fixed point to anchor himself to.

Then Mohinder's right hand is fingering Sylar's tie. “Nice shirt.”

After a pause to make sure he's not mistaking Mohinder's tone, Sylar smirks. “Special occasion.”

They move closer together.

“Who's the lucky fellow?” Mohinder asks quietly, flitting his eyes down to Sylar's mouth.

Following the same move and glancing at Mohinder's lips, Sylar says, “This rather demanding professor type who drives me up the wall most of the time.”

“Sounds too good for you.”

“Yeah, but he doesn't realize it yet.”

“Maybe you're too good for him?”

“I like the way you think.”

Their kiss is tentative at first, lips meeting their familiar, but slowly it deepens and as their tongues taste of home, Sylar finally relaxes. The moment they break apart, Sylar rests his forehead against Mohinder's and whispers, “I missed you.”

Mohinder kisses him again. “Me too.”

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

Surprisingly, they don't spend a lot of the night together. Almost immediately after leaving the study, Mohinder is whisked away into a conversation with Peter and two academics interested in his genetic research.

Initially, Sylar feels exposed without Mohinder as his protective armor amongst the socially gifted. Far more used to either being alone or dealing with people one-on-one, the cacophony of bodies and noise is a blow to his senses and comfort level. He chooses to mingle inconspicuously, grabbing a drink along the way (not to get tipsy and lower his inhibitions, but to have something to do with his hands) and partakes in a few random conversations.

All in all, the evening isn't as terrible as he expects, but he is glad to not have to do it all the time. Whenever it gets to be too much he drifts his gaze around the room until he finds Mohinder, who seems to be in his element, discussing all sorts of things that capture his interest and twist his tongue excitedly. A faint hint of jealousy tightens Sylar's stomach seeing Mohinder in this other life, at ease in it, but when Mohinder returns his gaze and bestows an enigmatic smile his way, all envy falls by the wayside. Sylar understands the silent declaration meant just for him.

When they do get within touchable proximity of one another, they turn into each others space, angling in close to be heard over the noise (and brushing lips against ears, grazing a cheek), running a light fingertip across the back of the other's hand, seeing almost no one else. It's strange to admit, for something they rarely do in public, at least in front of people they may see again, but it makes Sylar feel good.

On his way back from the bathroom, he hears the melodic notes of a slow song coming from the living room. He finds most of the guests have moved out of the room, although a handful remain on the sofa or chairs pushed over to the walls. Three couples are dancing in the center of the room, seemingly cut off from the world. They look…unbreakable, like nothing can get between them. Momentarily shifting his eyes away from the dancers, Sylar spots Mohinder near the kitchen door staring at the couples and makes his way over, sneaking up from the side.

He rumbles against Mohinder's ear, “You want to dance?”

Mohinder startles and gives him a tight-lipped smile. “No,” he replies, but there's longing laced in the word and the drift of his eyes back to the dancers.

Thrown by the flat refusal, Sylar's chest constricts and a flash of uncertainty chips away at his otherwise stoic resolve.

Possibly sensing his surprise, Mohinder turns towards him. “I'm happy you came.” Mohinder flattens out the material of Sylar's shirt against his chest and presses his palm above Sylar's heart. “You don't have to ask me to dance.”

Mohinder's attention wanders back to the couples and the second he drops his hand from Sylar's chest, Sylar's body reels from the loss of touch.

Slowly, Sylar backs away, leaving Mohinder where he is.

**  
********** ********** ********** ********** ************

 

With his hands thrust in his pant pockets to keep them warm, Sylar stares up at the night sky, occasionally obscured by the cold, white air that streams in short bursts from his mouth when he exhales. The sounds of the party are muted, but out on the back patio he can still hear the merry commotion while keeping it at arm's length.

The rest of the small yard is laden with snow, and although the patio's been cleared, the lack of holiday decoration suggests no one was actually meant to hang out there. Which makes it the most welcoming place to be. Sylar shuffles about, keeping his eyes on the stars above, so caught up in his own reverie he doesn't hear the back door open or approaching footsteps.

“Aren't you cold?” Mohinder asks.

Sylar pauses, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “No more than usual.” He looks back at the sky.

Quiet enfolds them while Mohinder steps up next to him and tilts his head upwards.

Sylar glances to this right, taking in Mohinder's profile. “I'm not the sentimental type.”

Mohinder looks at him. “Sure you are.”

Sylar quirks an eyebrow and Mohinder goes on, “You just show it in sarcasm and condescension.”

“I believe that's your M.O.” Sylar smiles to himself.

“No.” Mohinder comes around to stand in front of him, arms across his chest to brace against the cold. “I'm all sarcasm and defiance.”

“That's a lot of sarcasm.”

Mohinder grins and cups Sylar's neck, rubbing his thumbs softly across Sylar's skin. “Honestly, I'm shocked we've understood each other all this time, given all the double meanings.”

Sylar gently, yet pointedly, steps back and pulls free of Mohinder's touch, eliciting confusion from Mohinder by way of a lined brow.

“Inside, earlier,” Sylar awkwardly begins. “I didn't ask out of obligation. I…I wanted to dance with you.”

“Oh,” is Mohinder's quiet and unmistakably shocked reply. He flits his gaze away and a multitude of questioning emotions flickers over his face.

Sylar hates how much of a big deal it appears to be. Changing one's mind should be a prerogative, not an anomaly throwing off the balance of their lives. He can't help but wonder how Mohinder truly regards him--Cold? Detached? Uncaring? Disinterested? Just like Mohinder is capable of diverging from the expected path--turning over a pleasant surprise--so is Sylar. Why, then, do they hold themselves to such different standards? Is this a result of his own stubbornness coming home to roost?

The simple fact is the couples dancing hit a nerve in Sylar for what they, intentionally or not, symbolized. In the midst of one world, these couples had recreated their own ones, only they were privy to. For a stopped moment in time he could see himself with Mohinder in the same isolated sphere--part of the big picture, but untouchable. It was something they _could_ have.

Right now, however, it seems the furthest possibility from reality and Sylar considers the best way to convince Mohinder of the genuine intention behind his actions. Flummoxed and dejected, Sylar's on the verge of dismissively telling him to forget it when Mohinder is suddenly posing formally in front of him with his right hand extended.

“May I have this dance, Mr. Gray?”

Sylar eyes him suspiciously, on principle disliking any attempt at being placated. “There's no music,” he replies wryly.

Mohinder narrows his eyes and gives him a half smile. “Sure there is.”

He presses his right hand over Sylar's heart then slowly trails it down Sylar's left arm until he can fold his hand around Sylar's. At the same time, Mohinder rests his left hand on the small of Sylar's back. On reflex, beholden to every move, Sylar places his right hand high up on Mohinder's shoulder, bringing them chest-to-chest, and squeezes his other hand in Mohinder 's.

“Hmmm, that's a good song,” Sylar murmurs.

They begin a slow movement side-to-side, and Mohinder rests his head on Sylar's shoulder, turning his face into the side of Sylar's neck. Deep breaths and Sylar closes his eyes, allowing himself to feel the returned connection with another, revel in the current racing through them.

“You really like going to these things?” Sylar asks.

“Mmmm, yes. I do.” Mohinder's answer is muffled.

Sylar thinks on that. “The things that matter most to me--and there aren't a lot--I've always held on tightly, kept all to myself. You…”

Mohinder pulls back, a small smile on his lips. “Like to share my toys?”

Sylar gives him a false smile and Mohinder's amused expression falters. He squeezes Sylar's hand apologetically, prodding him to go on.

Sylar flickers his eyes away, then back. “I _do_ love having you all to myself.” He's firm, with a decisive tone.

Mohinder's eyes search his. “Us being together, my choosing you, wanting you, doesn't change because there are other people in the picture. Given what we went through to get here, you know this isn't only a fleeting fling.”

Sylar sucks in a deep breath.

“So what's really bothering you?” Mohinder prompts.

Sylar considers his words carefully. It is important Mohinder understands what he is saying.

“Context,” Sylar admits, and spins them around, gripping Mohinder tighter and relishing the strong hold on his body Mohinder returns as they stop.

Mohinder throws him a chastising glare, but his small smile is all Sylar needs to see.

“I know who we are, just us, no one else,” Sylar says. “I know who you are with them, what those friendships mean…and everyone knows who I am in relation to them--mutually beneficial for a greater good, but no need to get choked up about it. I'm a means to an end, same thing all of them are to me.”

“But…”

“Us, together, with them?” Sylar hates the sound of uncertainty in his usually resolute voice. However, if anyone will read through the confused emotions, it's the man watching him in all seriousness. “I…”

“Don't have much control,” Mohinder adds thoughtfully.

“We're something different with them. Unknowable…at the moment. I don't like taking risks I can't see the outcome for.”

“You took a risk with me.”

“And look how that turned out.” Sylar smirks at Mohinder's faux pout taking offense.

“I can leave anytime,” Mohinder wisely jabs back and though it's a joke they also know it speaks to the independent streaks in both that drive them to follow their own paths. It's what brought them together, against all odds.

“But you won't.”

“Someone needs to make sure you don't turn into a creepy recluse…without trying to kill you for the sake of it.” Mohinder rolls his eyes; then reverently adds, “I have no intention of letting you go, and you're coming tonight does mean everything.”

The callback to their earlier conversation sends a wave of calm through Sylar, their offloaded confessions taking with them the weight of the world.

“Good. Because I don't make statements like this all that often.”

“Are you admitting I have you wrapped around my finger?”

Sylar meets his challenging stare with one of his own. “I'm admitting that you're worth going the extra mile for.”

“Good answer,” Mohinder places a small kiss on his neck.

The touch sends a shiver through Sylar that turns into a warm buzz. “Thanks. I've been practicing it all week.”

Mohinder smiles into the crook of Sylar's neck. They continue dancing and the cold eventually falls away, the world disappears. A light snowfall begins and the light from inside the house basks the in a yellow glow.

Sylar clears his throat. “I know you don't celebrate--,”

“Merry Christmas, Gabriel.” Mohinder raises his head from Sylar's shoulder and kisses him.

Sylar holds him tighter as the kiss grows deeper, filled with longing now realized. This moment has been a lifetime in the making for Sylar, a life made up of awful and brilliant things. To be _loved by_ Mohinder is something he cannot put into words, but feels in his bones, coursing through his veins, lighting up his nerves. To be able _to love_ Mohinder is the impossible made real, it is Sylar's grasp exceeding his reach. It is frightening. And wonderful.

A culmination of two worlds, brutal in simplicity, but an extension of one to the other: Gabriel to Sylar, to Mohinder. There's blood between them--bad, spilled, the intoxicating drink of forever, of forgiveness.

Sylar can't let go. He won't.

As far as he's concerned, their future, in all its imperfection, is stretched out before them. There's no shadow for company, nudging him this way and that.

He has Mohinder to keep the darkness at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> Mylar Fic  
> **Best Angst for Holiday Prompt Table** (WINNER)


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